I could just as easily have called this Hell House: Welcome To Hell…
I’ll explain that in just a sec. Keep reading. Or don’t. But then you’ll never know the answer…
You see, I was listening to NPR the other day. I do that a lot. Either NPR or CD’s. It’s not that I believe they are completely fair and balanced in their reporting. There is no such organization. Even back when I was learning from Martha Ackmann that the primary goal of the journalist is to be objective and report the news, the professionals out there doing it had biases bleeding through their words. Now, it seems like it’s even worse. Or maybe it’s just that my idealism committed suicide somewhere around my 30th birthday and I was suddenly able to see the emperor’s new clothes for what they really were… or weren’t as the case may be.
However, I’m chasing a whole different chicken with that. Take notice, I said chasing, not choking… Let’s not get the title confused with the prose.
So, anyway, I was listening to NPR and they had an allergist on there who was doing a study about some manner or regional pine tree allergy in the PNW that had gone undiagnosed and untreated in thousands of people over the years. In the process he was giving some basic info about how allergies work, how they form, and how it can be different for certain folks. Like being born with them, or being exposed to an allergen in small amounts over a long period of time – sorta like death by saccharin, if you believe that effed up study.
And, in some cases, a massive exposure to an allergen triggering a reaction that just sticks with you for the rest of forever.
Enter, Hell House…
If you’ve read my previous blogs on the subject of Hell House, then you know that when my father passed, part of his estate was a house that my sister and I now own. With my sis being far and away, the bulk of the duties regarding upkeep have fallen to me. If you want all those gory details, with pictures, just look up the Hell House blogs here on BL.
But back to those damnable fornicating avians and insects…
The previous tenant to whom my father had been renting Hell House was all about plants, and had quite the weed patch going in the exceptionally large back yard. I say weed patch because if a plant isn’t a tree, grass, or something that produces an edible fruit, root, berry, or seed that I would find on my plate during a meal, then as far as I’m concerned it’s a weed.
Now that we’re on the same page… When the tenant moved out we had to do some work to the place before re-renting it. Part of that work involved cleaning up the weed patch, which ended up happening in the fall when everything was going to seed. E K and I spent countless hours one weekend, mowing, digging, chopping, and stuffing dried up, alien kudzuish whatevers into yard barges. The work was hard, sweaty, dirty, nasty, and otherwise unpleasant, but it needed to be done. And, if there’s one thing I can say it’s that E K and I do not run from hard work.
However, by the time we arrived home and I had myself a nice hot shower, something began to happen. My entire body itched, my face turned into a misshapen Murv balloon, and breathing was no longer a concept my body could wrap said balloon head around. Fortunately, a healthy dose of Benadryl re-enabled my ability to process oxygen, but it didn’t even take the edge off my case of the miserables.
Not long after that I heard the Doc on NPR.
I’d never had allergies before. Now I do. Every time the avians, insects, and weeds engage in their inter-species orgy of public fornication – spring and fall – I turn into a dwarf with an identity crisis. I can’t decide if my name is Itchy, Sneezy, Stuffy, Snotty, or Achey.
So, Hell House: 157, Merp: 0
Oh well… at least I’m not allergic to sex.
More to come…