Can I get a Claritin?

I have allergies. To all kinds of things: fruits, vegetables, animals (my cat!). I’ve learned to live with and work around my allergies. So I take meds. For years, Claritin was my savior. One tiny pill that started to work super quickly. Just that one pill, and I was good for hours and hours. I don’t know if my body changed or if my allergies changed, but Claritin stopped working for me. These days, I bounce between two new meds, making my decision based on whether the pill makes me sleepy or lets me get on with my day. The sleepy-making one works better, but I can only take it when I don’t care if I fall asleep.

I’m stalling.

This isn’t the slice I was going to write. It’s the slice I decided to write because it’s nicer. But never mind nicer. I’ll just dive in with the real slice.

I have allergic reactions to people, too. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does … whew! Don’t I wish I had a Claritin then!

I first noticed this about ten or so years ago. The project I directed meant I had to meet and sometimes work with a very powerful, famous man. Everyone who worked on the project was thrilled to have the chance to interact with this man, to get to say that they could call him by name, that they had shared a meal or a joke with him. Feh.

I could and can still easily acknowledge the incredible work he’s done. It’s extraordinary and beyond impressive. I respect him for that work, for the ways he’s been able to grow and expand it.

But the man himself? No thank you. The moment he entered a room, everything in me soured. He’d make a joke, and I’d have to choke back the bile rising in my throat.

And he knew it, too. I don’t think he would have been able to articulate what was going on with me, but he certainly knew something was off between us. I would catch him sometimes, looking at me with pure confusion. I made no sense to him. And how could I, when I wasn’t making sense to myself?

I fussed with myself, trying to puzzle out what my problem was. I talked to a friend about it, describing my responses in comparison to seemingly every other living being on the planet.

“You’re allergic to him,” she said. “On sight, everything in you — you physical self, your psyche — rejects him. Like if you ate a fig.” (I am super allergic to figs.)

That idea — that I could just have a complete, visceral rejection of another person — had never occurred to me. And, although it sounded exactly right when I heard her say it and I’ve adopted her language and have been saying it ever since, the idea troubled me. What does it mean about me that I can so completely reject a person I don’t even know?

As I said, it doesn’t happen often. I can really count on one hand the people I’ve had this response to. I’m not talking about not liking someone or being disgusted by someone. But truly feeling an instant, full-system revulsion and rejection. When I have to be near/around that person, my physical response is akin to the way magnets repel, a dramatic and natural force driving me away from that person. I’ve never figured out how to counter it, only how to live with it.

And I’m thinking about it now because I’ve just recognized that it’s happening again. I’ve been working with a group that I enjoy supporting. I’ve been working with them since mid-way through 2020, and I’m getting deeper into the work, which means I’m working more closely with a lot of the group members.

And tonight, watching playback of an instructional video several of the group members made, I recognized my response. There’s a woman in the group to whom I’ve been responding from the beginning, and it wasn’t until hearing her voice tonight that I recognized my repelling-magnet response.

And maybe it’s not something that can be helped. Maybe I’m always just going to have allergic responses to people. But I want there to be a way to solve this, to not be repelled. This woman I’m responding to seems to be a genuine, kind, caring person. If I could get over this allergy, I’m sure I’d have a lot to learn from her, that I’d enjoy being in working groups with her, might even socialize with her outside of the group.

I have no idea where to start, what parts of me I need to be investigating to figure out what’s triggering this response. This is a part of myself that I’m not happy to recognize. I want to be hopeful that calling myself out can help me find some answers. I wanted this to be my slice but then shied away from showing this decidedly less appealing side of myself and started writing about my “real” allergies instead.

But the false start works for me. Those OTC meds saved me and continue to save me. I wish there was Claritin for this reaction. And I’m joking, but I mean it, too. I have work to do to figure out what in me causes this response to other people. It would be wonderful to have some magical “Behavior Benadryl” that would let me have a normal interaction while I’m doing that work.


It’s the 15th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
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Original Slicer - GirlGriot

I want the drugs. I need the drugs. Give me the drugs.

I am vaxxed and boosted. I am, in fact, hoping that a second booster for oldsters like me will be approved before my trip in May. I want to be loaded up with all the protection I can get.

My doctor — because she is a sensible and responsible professional and not an alarmist hypochondriac, terrified of getting Covid — has been telling me each time I email her about a second booster that I need to wait, that a second boost hasn’t been approved yet, hasn’t been shown to be helpful/necessary. And, each time we talk, I nod and agree that it’s best to wait … while inside I am screaming: GET THE DRUGS INTO MY BODY!!!

It’s still interesting to me how pro-vaccine I am. Or, to be more precise, how pro this vaccine I am. When vaccine talk first started in 2020, I was pretty certain I would wait a good long while before getting a shot. I wanted to wait until a lot of people had been vaxxed before I offered up my own precious self for some drug that would have been tested for about twelve seconds before being touted as the answer to our prayers. Did I want a vaccine? Yes. Did I trust Big Pharma or Caligula’s administration? Not hardly. I already have a strong, evidence-based distrust of the medical profession. There was no way I was going to raise my hand for experimental drugs.

Ha.

Fast forward to the moment it became possible to get a shot. When I say I would have elbowed kittens, Mr. Rogers, and the Dalai Lama out of my way to get my first shot, believe me. I didn’t think twice about signing up.

Same with the booster. The moment I was eligible, I was online booking a shot for the next morning. I got to the pop-up vax spot before the staff, sitting outside closed, empty trailers ready to roll up my sleeve and get my dose.

My trust of the medical profession hasn’t grown by leaps and bounds. It hasn’t grown at all. My recently canceled surgery and the lack of care that has come in the wake of that mess have shown me that I can be assured that the medical profession still doesn’t care a whit for me.

Clearly, however, my fear of Covid is stronger than my distrust of doctors and drug companies. I am acutely aware of how likely I am to have a terrible time with Covid, how much more likely I am to die from it. That fear is what makes it easy for me to stay masked, easy for me to follow all the protocols (and wish other people would, too). That fear is what sent me hurtling toward my first Moderna shot, and what has me desperate for a second booster.

I just saw an article saying the Biden administration is pushing for second booster for people over 50, and I am so here for it! It hasn’t been approved yet, and there are good-sounding reasons to maybe wait … but none of those reasons are stronger than my fear, none of those reasons can drown out the drumbeat of GET THE DRUGS INTO MY BODY!!

Fingers crossed.


It’s the 15th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to!

Original Slicer - GirlGriot

Pick and Mix

We have a serious package theft problem in my building. So many things have been stolen in the last two years. Deliveries went missing before the pandemic, yes, but these two years of financial hardship have amped up the stealing. I understand being desperate, but no one in this building has much money, and stealing isn’t cool any time.

As terrible as it is to say, I was actually glad when I learned that other people were being robbed. For a while, the thefts felt targeted. No one was talking about it, and I thought I was the only person losing packages.

Whoever is stealing my things must have such an interesting sense of who I am. One thing they for-sure know about me is that I’m a fat woman. They have stolen package after package of clothing orders. I am the fattest person I’ve ever seen in this building. By a significant degree. Why the fuck do the thieves keep taking clothes they can’t wear?!

So they know I’m “a person of size.” Here’s a shortlist of other things they’ve taken that maybe round out their picture of me:

  1. A DVD of The Godfather, Part II
  2. A pair of semiprecious pendulums, one onyx, one tourmaline
  3. A set of cookie cutters
  4. Fingering and laceweight yarn and some silk roving
  5. Vitamins and body lotion
  6. A set of markers and a couple of coloring books

Now, for all of these thefts but one, the shipper has either refunded or reshipped. So I have just about all of my purchases. It still sucks.

The gem store that I bought the pendulums from refused to reship or refund. We had a lengthy email exchange, but they wouldn’t budge. Their reasons? First, they were so sorry, but I couldn’t prove I didn’t receive the package, and I could easily be lying to them. And while that’s true, it’s pretty ugly. Also, how am I supposed to prove to you that I didn’t receive a package? Send you photos of my empty hands? What? Second, they asked me to understand their position as a small business. Those products were expensive, and it would be a hardship for them to refund my purchase. Excuse me? Yes, those pendulums were expensive. The thief had them. The shop had my money. The only person who got nothing in that exchange was me, and losing that money was no small thing for me, either. Obviously, I won’t be shopping there again.

Twice, the thieves have expressed their judgment of me and my shopping choices. Right before lockdown, I came home and found a bag on my doorknob. Inside was an opened package and a note saying the package had been delivered to another apartment by accident … um … except, packages don’t get delivered to our doors. And, even if they did, you’d figure out the error by looking at the label, right? You wouldn’t need to open the package — and open the inner packaging — to discover it wasn’t for you. I guess the slipcovers I bought for my chairs were particularly unappealing, so completely unappealing that the thief decided to give them to me. I’m guessing they wanted me to know how undesirable those slipcovers were so I’d step up my game and start buying more attractive and steal-worthy items.

During a weird moment of early Covid, I bought not one, not two, but … FOUR manual typewriters. (I’m not kidding. Let’s not even try to understand why.) It should only have been three. I fell in love with and bought a blue Royal Safari. Then I bought two similar blue typewriters because I thought the three would look so nice side by side displayed across the top of my bookcases.

But the Royal was stolen. Super-quickly, too. I got the delivery notification when I was on my way home from work, and the box was gone by the time I got home 30 minutes later. I was so mad about the theft, I went to eBay the second I got in the house, found and purchased another Safari. (Seriously. I am ridiculous, but I stay totally on-brand. It’s a really lovely typewriter … makes me think of Eero Saarinen and the TWA terminal, which does and doesn’t make sense.)

The next day, I opened my door and found the box on the threshold, open, all the packing materials spilling out, and my Royal sitting there, waiting for me.

That thief must have been so angry. They must have thought they’d really scored with such a nice, heavy box. I would have loved to see the look on their face when they got through the packaging and found a MANUAL TYPEWRITER!

I’m sure they cursed my name. I just wish that failed theft had inspired them to not steal from me, had put the fear of ugly slipcovers and typewriters into them. Alas.

On my floor — and I imagine this is happening on other floors, too — we’ve taken to bringing one another’s packages upstairs when we see them. I love this about my floor neighbors. It’s a little comical that, like the thieves, I am developing a clear sense of my neighbors’ shopping habits … and they’re learning about mine.

Maribel down the hall is an Amazon fanatic! The elderly couple next door to her buys paper goods in bulk (at a rate that I struggle to fathom). K across the hall reads a lot of uber-cool art and culture magazines that are too long to fit in the mailbox. And Yana at the other end of the hall has had several plant deliveries (it’s from bringing up her packages that I learned about the online plant store from which I’ve now acquired several new plants).

I appreciate this new way my floor neighbors and I are taking care of each other, but things still go missing. We can’t all be home all the time to catch deliveries before the thieves go shopping in the mailroom like at pick-and-mix.

When I cut my hair, I came home from the barber and had a moment of freak-out because I didn’t have a pick. I hadn’t owned a pick for decades, and I hadn’t thought at all about needing new tools. Naturally, I went right online to order something (yes, I have a shopping problem). I bought a very basic, cheesy one — metal teeth with a Black power fist on the handle. Of course. (Let me pause here to say how annoyed I was to find it called a “pik” or a “pic.” Are you kidding? Why would it make sense to drop a letter?)

I got the delivery notification mid-day yesterday, got home from work and found … nothing.

Great. It’s the first theft in a while. And it’s not earth-shattering. It just pisses m off. I wanted that pick. Obviously, I’ve been doing my hair for almost two wee sand have realized that I don’t really need the pick. But I wanted it. And now I don’t have it.

I am sympathetic about people having a rough time financially, especially during the last two years. But we’re neighbors. We’re supposed to be a community of some sort, and you’re so comfortable stealing from people you probably have the audacity to smile at in the elevator or hold the door for? Ugh.

Also, I know my sense of my building as a community is super naive. I know it.

But I’m right too. I had the ability to live with that belief for the ten years in my old apartment. Packages were left outside the house — sometimes half-hidden behind the trash cans, sometimes left in plain view — and I never lost a single one.

Yes, we were much more of a community there, but anyone and everyone could and did walk by the house. And somehow everyone managed not to steal anything. And yes, that wasn’t during the pandemic, but it was during the Great Recession.

Sigh. I have no cause and effect here. No real point, either. I just want people to stop stealing my stuff. Full stop. (And now Thieves in the Temple is in my head … a Prince earworm is never a bad thing, but I don’t want to associate that song with this mess.)


It’s the 15th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to!

Original Slicer - GirlGriot

A Slice of Slices

Some of my March posts are one-offs, nothing to return to. They fit neatly in the ribbon-tied package of my posts and they’re done. Others … not so much. So tonight I’m sharing a few updates on some of those slices that have kept on keeping on.

My toes are getting better. There’s still pain, but the swelling is going down, and I’m no longer limping. I should say more here … how I finally went to the doctor, for instance. But I didn’t. So I can’t say that.

I opened the photo app on my phone to share a picture I took earlier today … and discovered that I’d taken a picture of the man on the subway platform on Sunday. I have absolutely no memory of doing that. It was, apparently, right before the woman stepped into our sightline — the train is behind him, entering the station, and he’s turned toward us, already making that strange, forceful walk toward us. It’s so odd that I don’t remember taking his picture. Maybe I wanted to have a record of him in case he did something? I supposed that’s sort of good thinking … but imagine how much that could have set him off! Yes, imagine. I enlarged the picture to get a better look at him … and he’s staring directly into the camera! That creeped me right out, I won’t lie.

My whole reason for writing about my list-making last night was to share a silly story and photo … and then I got so swept up into my list love that I totally forgot about the story and photo! So: I have some Girl Scout Cookies, some Lemon-Ups. They aren’t exactly the lemon cookie I had in mind, but I like them. If you haven’t seen these cookies, they are frightfully perky and pep-talky. They are printed with lines little exclamatory lines: “I am GUTSY!” “I am STRONG!” “I am BOLD!” It’s really cute, but also … you know, frightfully perky and pep-talky. I reached for a cookie, and I was so happy to read it’s little slogan. It said, “I am a LIST-MAKER!” I was so surprised and pleased. I felt so seen, so embraced.

Yeah, and then, instead of embraced, I felt embarrassed. Because that’s not at all what the cookie says. No. The Girl Scouts aren’t celebrating the list-makers among us, all of us bullet journal fanatics. Hardly. That cookie — almost as if it is mocking my staid, calm list-making — says:


It’s the 15th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to!

Original Slicer - GirlGriot

One from Column A and One from Column B …

I like lists. There used to be a blog with that name years ago, and I was instantly drawn to it. I have always been a list-maker. Yes for the obvious things — groceries, daily tasks, packing for vacation. But also for just about anything else. If I have to think about something, my first move is usually to make a list … and sometimes to make two, to make the dreaded pro-and-con list.

I once made some crazy huge lists. Huge because I wrote them on giant chart paper and hung them up on my kitchen walls. This was years ago as I was prepping for my first knee surgery. I had a lot of things I needed to do to be ready for surgery, to get my house ready for me to be some degree of debilitated after surgery, to get loose ends at work tied up so I could ignore my job for weeks during the first part of my recuperation. I needed a series of lists, one for each area of work. And I needed the lists to be big and in my face, hence the chart paper. My kitchen looked pretty comical. And for a long time. The lists kept growing. I had three lists, but each list had two and then three sheets of chart paper.

It looked crazy, but it also made me happy. I could see my work laid out so clearly in front of me … even as the “work” started to look overwhelming and ridiculous.

I’ve mentioned my list love before, written about my foray into bullet journaling. I am still keeping a journal (and still using my bullet journaling as an excuse to buy way more pens and notebooks than I could ever actually need or use).

Today I started to make a list that started off so normal, so manageable … and then it went off the rails. My list has now spread across eight pages of my journal — two columns per page! I’m obviously out of control. I flipped through the pages tonight, and realized a few things (yes, I’m going to make a list!):

  • Sometimes making lists gets in the way of actually doing things.
  • I wish there was a magical tool I could be using that would let me take my crazy-long list and instantly categorize and organize it so it looks les like madness and more like a plan.
  • If I have this many things on a to-do list, what the hell am I actually doing with my time?
  • Do I really believe all the things on this monster list need to be done?
  • Is this list so long because I’ve been procrastinating … or have I been procrastinating because I have so many things to do and couldn’t figure out where to start? (In which case, my insane list will actually help me get started?)

Happily, I don’t have any chart paper these days, so my kitchen — and the rest of my house — is safe for now.


It’s the 15th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to!

Original Slicer - GirlGriot