Parenthetically Yours

Allergic Reaction

Allergies suck. They also wheeze, and cough, and sneeze. And I got ‘em.

I’ve had allergies as long as I can remember. When I was in elementary school I remember a doctor telling my mom that I was allergic to wool, down, dust, and pollen. I wasn’t a boy-in-the-bubble type case, but it was significant enough that the doc recommended my mother vacuuming the house every day. Tell that to any stay-at-home mom with two kids and note their reaction. Yeah, right. Like that’s going to happen.

So I learned to cope. It was never that big of a deal. Sure—come springtime I’d have to stock up on Sudafed and wear a mask to cut grass (which I refused to do). But for the most part, I’ve just lived with stopped up sinuses and the semi-regular sneezing fit when the ragweed gets just right.

Soon after college, I found myself in Chicago visiting a friend. Another mutual friend of ours was having a birthday party and we decided to drop by for a bit. I had always looked up to this particular upperclassman and was looking forward to the visit. Kendall was one of those really smart and wickedly funny guys I always aspired to be, yet never quite achieved. The kind of guy who in the late 80s was still listening to Springsteen and Neil Young on vinyl while I was buying Whitesnake and Queensryche cassettes.

The party at Kendall’s uber-cool downtown Chicago loft was well underway when we arrived. The place was crawling with self-important, highly educated urbanites. These were all of Kendall’s University of Chicago grad-school buddies who talked about Film (not movies) as an institution and Kirkegaard like they hung out with him. Pretention doesn’t come close to describing the scene…and I wanted to be JUST LIKE THEM! One problem: I played Christian music. For a living. In this crowd, I could never be cool, would never have an insightful story to tell. No, I was the guy that makes everyone ask “Who invited him?”  My palms could’ve lubricated a Hummer every time I was asked, “So, what do you do?” Not from embarrassment, but rather I knew what the reaction would be. Stunned silence every time I answered, as if I had said I was from Mars. Actually, I probably would have been given more respect and attention had I actually been a little green Martian.

I just wanted to skulk in a corner in anonymity until we left. Just stand still, Randy, and don't draw any attention to yourself. Then it started. The sneezing. And OH HOW I SNEEZED! And sneezed. Over and over and over. What in the world could I be so allergic to? There’s no down or wool or dust to speak of…what could it…wait. Is that a cat? Do you think I might be allergic to cats? I’ve never noticed that before. Wh-wh-whAAH-CHOO!!

I must have sneezed (no exaggeration) thirty times in 20 minutes. There was snot all over me, my eyes were running like faucets, and I looked like I was either dying or had been smoking meth (which hadn’t been invented yet). Utter humiliation. Needless to say, I left the party 30 minutes after arriving. Good to see you Kendall.

That was the day I learned that I was allergic to cats. Since then I've learned that I’m not allergic to ALL cats, though. I’ve even found one or two whose company I've actually enjoyed (Nadia, you know who you are). However, there is one furry critter named Henry that makes up for all those that don’t affect me.  And I spent three hours with him on Saturday.

My buddy Greg (who was my best man) married my cousin Amy. Great people. Love them. Their daughter Kate makes me want to have kids. Their cat Henry, however, makes me question God’s judgment when he created the feline species. Because of Henry, it’s impossible for me to see them without sneezing…and I don’t mean polite little micro-sneezes. I’m talking about violent, multiple neck-snapping nasal eruptions. It’s as if he has some sort of allergen magnification force field around him against which I’m completely powerless. I took a Claritin and three Sudafed. Nothing. No difference whatsoever. Oh…it was awful. Every time I’d have a sneezing fit, I’d do it six to ten times. Multiply that times the eight or ten fits and I figure I sneezed at least 75 times on Saturday. The first 40 or so were pretty funny and it gave Katie the giggles whenever I’d start up. Somewhere around sneeze number 43 or 44, though, her laughter turned to sympathetic coddling. It was appreciated because the muscles in my neck and shoulders were in absolute shambles by the end of the day.

Yesterday morning, my neck was so wrecked I literally couldn’t turn my head to the left. I nearly ran into a little red BMW getting on the interstate because I couldn’t turn my head to look beside me and I spent last night ignoring practically everyone to my left at a Super Bowl party. If I did turn toward them I resembled Frankenstein, turning my whole body to face them. This morning I feel much better, but my sinuses have yet to drain and my entire upper body reeks of Bengay, Icy Hot, and oatmeal. I smell like a convalescent home. 

This is what kitty cats do to me.

(rw)

Torture and Denial

I made a flippant remark Sunday night that has had severe consequences. That one, unplanned sentence has become known in my head as “the ant” because, like that tiny six-legged critter, you wouldn’t think it could carry such weight. But it can and does.

In a fit of general health frustration (which is primarily a result of less exercise), I made the exclamation, “Let’s not eat bread until Thanksgiving.” Katie immediately went for it. If there’s any opportunity that I’ll eat more consciously, she’s all over it like Republicans on Arkansas (or, to be fair, Democrats on Oregon). So she, somewhat bewildered by my comment, hastily agreed. I suspect she may have fallen in love with me all over again too, but that’s pure conjecture.

Giving up bread, for us, is not like giving up Coke or cable. No, those things are optional. Bread, however, is part of my foundational nutrition guide. I mean, come on—it’s a FOOD GROUP! Do you expect me to give up an ENTIRE FOOD GROUP?! That leaves me with only three groups to choose from: sugar, coffee, and meat. That doesn’t seem healthy to me.

It was an easy directive to follow that night since we’d run out of Ezekiel bread over the weekend and hadn’t yet been to the grocery store (pause: if you live in middle Tennesee, have you been to our new Trader Joe’s in Green Hills yet? Healthy, delicious, and cheaper than Kroger. Now, GO!). We simply had no bread options that night, so the decision was made for us.

The next morning, I drove Katie to work and had to meet someone a couple of hours later so I decided to go to Panera to return some emails. Now, what kind of moron goes to Panera when they’ve sworn off bread? Apparently, I’m the kind of moron who does just such. Can you imagine a recovering junkie attending a heroin carnival? That’s what it was like. As if this wasn’t bad enough, Katie met a friend for breakfast this morning…AT PANERA. Why are we torturing ourselves?

Maybe it’s partly because we want to know our respective bread thresholds. Or maybe we just need to smell the warm, buttery goodness, drizzled with just enough honey to make the taste buds explode in ecstatic jubilation.

Or, maybe that’s just the tremors talking.

(rw)

Bug

Yeah, there's a stomach bug going around. Katie had it all weekend and I've got it today. It's not pretty. I feel as if I'm simultaneously giving birth to an eel, a dragon, and barbed wire.

I'll see you guys tomorrow.

(rw)

Two Funny Conversations

The scene: Tuesday morning, at my buddy Clay's house (which is really my buddy Matt's house, but I digress), in the kitchen, right after he's pulled a container of Tex-Mex chili sauce from the cabinet. Action.

Me: Dude, is that chili mix? What is that stuff?

Clay: (thick Texas drawl) It's this vegetarian chili sauce. It's awesome. I got some tofu dogs last week, grilled 'em up and put this stuff on it. It was the bomb.

Me: No way! Are you vegetarian?

Clay: I was last week. I'm puttin' this stuff on my eggs.

Scene two: With The Wife, on a walk, talking about health-related stuff.

Wife: (with shock and amazement) Did you know my dad has lost 50 pounds now?

Me: What? That's insane.

Wife: Yeah, he weighs, like, 180.

Me: Uh...that's only 14 pounds heavier than me.

Wife: (deep, silent contemplation) 

Me: That's crazy.

Wife: He's lost a fifth grader.

And scene(s).

(rw)

Death row, Steve Jobs, and other nervous ramblings

I don’t understand why I’m so nervous. It’s only a dentist appointment yet I feel like I’m sitting on death row awaiting my turn in the executioner’s chair. I’ve even come up with a few last words.

“I don’t belong to you, and you don’t belong to me—yeah, yeah. Freedom! Freedom! Freedom! You got ta give-uh whatcha taaaake!”

So, the best I’ve been able to come up with is lyrics from a George Michael song? That’s just pathetic. Oh well. I has elements of Braveheart in it, so it’ll do.

But yeah, I’m waiting on the couch to head down the street to the dentist. When I went three weeks ago (my first dentist visit in three years), they discovered that I have three cavities. They’re just going to keep an eye on two of them but the third one…well, it has to be filled now.

I haven’t had a filling in over 15 years so I’m hoping there’s been some technological developments that have made the tooth-filling industry quick and painless. Like, maybe Apple has designed something new to revolutionize the business. I’d love to hear that Steve Jobs keynote address. “We revolutionized computing with the Mac. We revolutionized music with the iPod and iTunes. We changed the cell phone industry with the iPhone. And now we’re taking it to dentistry. I give you iTooth.” Then he would go on to explain how teeth could be doing so much more than just chewing and crunching. The new iTooth would remove calories, fat, and carbs and electronically change your food at a molecular level to veggies and fruit. “We’re all vegetarians now! Except without the snobby opinions.” All the Apple faithful in attendence would cheer, they’d sell five million dentist kits the first weekend, and so on.

But, I’m afraid that’s not in the foreseeable future for me. Unfortunately, dentists are still in the dark ages; I’ll be getting a face full of novocaine and will be unconsciously drooling all afternoon. Unless, of course, Steve Jobs has something up his sleeve. He usually does.

I’d give my eye tooth for that.

(rw)

This post is FINALLY part of Watercooler Wednesday!

Neck Cramp

Another busy day today, but in the spirit of self-deprecation and transparency, you should all know that I've been experiencing something incredibly rare, strange, and funny this week.  Every time I sneeze (which has been probably 50-75 times in the past four or five days thanks to middle Tennessee's unusually high allergen count) my neck muscles have been getting charley horses. Cramping. It's all the tiny little muscles surrounding my windpipe and it's not comfortable. I typically swallow following a sneeze (never knew I did that until this week) and it feels like I'm trying to swallow an unmoistened tortoise. I don't know what could be causing this except maybe I've strained myself from rubbernecking as I drive past gas stations to see if there's any fuel in Nashville yet. 

(rw)

* photo from the Hillsboro Village Shell next to Fido taken a few weeks ago.

Ouch, Part II

I went to the dentist yesterday and my mouth feels like someone scraped, poked, and prodded my teeth and gums for an hour with a sharp metal hook. Oh, wait...they did.

(rw)

Ouch

What I don't understand is why people exercise. I can't even spell it without spellcheck, much less do it. But Katie and I are on a kick to get healthy so we've changed the way we eat pretty dramatically (for me) and it's been a great start. We've been eating better for several months so now that the weather has cooled it seems to be a good time to start exercising. We've taken a few walks and jogs around the neighborhood so I thought I'd be in decent enough shape to hit the gym. 

First of all, I should point out that for me to say "hit the gym" is akin to Bill Maher casually remarking that it's time for him to "head to church." These aren't natural words for me to say. Anytime I've ever exercised it's always been at the house or jogging around the neighborhood. The thought of going to a gym to workout in public is a horrible thought. Me with the birdlegs, skeletal arms, farmer's tan (I call it a musician's tan), and skinny gut? But, alas, my beloved gets a free membership to the YMCA with her job so it's almost wasteful to not take advantage. 

Our first trip was Monday and she suggested going to a Bosu class. I had no idea what Bosu is. She might as well have said Bozo class because I felt like a clown the whole time. Apparently it's really good for you to jump around on a half-ball and look like a clown. Also apparently I seem to have freakishly neglected every muscle from my thighs to my neck because today they feel like I spent a week hiking and/or fighting bears. I didn't realize there were muscles in between my ribs or that they could hurt so much.

After the 30 minute class I was sweating and breathing like a pentecostal preacher, except no one got saved and no love-offering was taken. Katie was more daring and spent the next hour with a personal trainer. I took some headphones to a treadmill to watch Monday Night Football (how 'bout those Cowboys?). I ended up running over three miles on the thing--hey, I was impressed--and felt great. 

That night we both fell asleep fast and slept like we had died. The soreness started kicking in pretty good around 8 last night and I can barely lift my hands to type this but it's a good soreness. I feel like I've done something, something worthwhile. The cool thing about the soreness is that it feels like the best way to deal with it is to do it all some more.

And all I can think about is jumping around on that stupid ball some more.

(rw)

Please visit the wonderful ETHOS blog for Watercooler Wednesday.

I'm not an addict...

I need an intervention. I have an addiction and Katie is enabling it with her own habit. Our drug of choice? Intervention.

Have you ever watched it? It’s a show on A&E that is the most dramatic and honest (brutally) show on television. You can even watch full episodes on their web site. The premise is they follow an addict for a couple of weeks under the guise of filming a documentary about addiction. It’s all leading up to the show’s climax, the intervention, at the end of the hour-long show. We’ve watched 6 episodes this week alone. Here’s why, though. It’s totally redemptive. It’s about the triumph of love over death, of relationship over sickness, of wholeness over brokenness. And I cry in every episode. Sometimes you sympathize with the addict, sometimes with the mom, or the husband—but in every episode, there’s at least one heroic person who’s reached the end of their rope. Most times, heroism happens at the end of ropes.

The show has the exact same format each week. We’re introduced to the addict in a confessional-style interview. The producers inexplicably have them spell their name (a silly thing that I’ve begun to say along with them) then the family's and friends’ interviews are spliced in to give an overview of the problem. There’s always a photo and video montage of the addict as a child where you see the innocence, the enthusiasm, the smiles. But there is always something sinister, something darker just around the corner which leads into the addiction and its effects that leads up to the unexpected intervention. But the absolute best part of the show happens immediately after the subject is checked into rehab. The screen fades to black and three words appear: Two Months Later. The suspense is incredible. Did he succeed? Did she do it? Most of the time it’s a success story that get the tears flowing. Other times you find out they’ve relapsed or got kicked out of recovery.

The things people use to numb their pain can be surprising, but thing is, we all have a tendency to self-medicate. Some people spend money to forget their problems, some eat. I know people who are addicted to church and worship as a form of numbing themselves. That sounds like heresy doesn’t it? The truth, though, is that to the extent that we use anything (whether it’s worship music, dating, shopping, or heroin) as a means of escaping the things the Spirit wants to deal with (our pain, brokenness, insecurities, etc), we’re missing the entire point Jesus was trying to make when He said the Truth will set you free. Ignoring the truth is called denial and numbing the pain with anything is called medicating.

The people on Intervention aren’t any different from any of us except maybe they’re just riskier with their drugs. 

(rw)

Pray for Will Hoge

An acquaintance of mine, Will Hoge, was involved in a traffic accident last night.  He's my absolute favorite Nashville musician who deserves superstardom.  He's still listed in critical condition but it looks like he'll recover.  Keep praying for his full recovery and that his immense talent would only be fueled by this near tragedy.

(rw)