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Thursday, October 23, 2008A Girl's Best Friend...?I had just finished changing a poopy diaper -- a remarkably large load, I might add -- and was on my way out of the bathroom with just-washed hands. Little Molly, of course, had followed me into the bathroom (no matter how fast I move, she's always quicker). I scooped her up and began to smother her in kisses. That's when I noticed she was in the process of putting something smallish and distinctively non-baby-friendly in her mouth. I grabbed it before she completed the move. It was my diamond engagement ring. Now, I only remove my diamond ring when I'm making dough. I shower in it, sleep in it, and do every household chore imaginable in it -- mainly because, if I took it off, I would be sure to lose it. (You all know this is true.) Which means that the obviously dropped ring was the result of one of three things: 1. My fingers have lost weight. 2. My knuckles are shrinking. 3. Molly was born with criminal instincts. Since my fingers are as short and stocky as ever and my knuckles continue to appear at least twenty years older than the rest of me, I'm going to assume that my daughter couldn't resist the diamond. The poop was a ploy to distract me while she greased it off my finger with her own saliva. Yeah, that must be it. It was a stomach-dropping moment for sure. Because if Molly hadn't picked it up and decided to taste it, I'm not I would have noticed it was gone. And I can just imagine the sheer horror of looking down at my left hand and noticing the absence of the one thing I own that has real monetary value. Now I'm paranoid. I keep checking -- is it there? Has it slipped off? I'm still not sure how it happened, or when. Part of me wants to take it off and put it in my jewelry box. But if I do that, I'll forget that I did it, and I'll panic when I realize the ring isn't on my finger. I can't win. Maybe I should attach it to my wedding band with florist's wire. Or solder. And maybe I shouldn't tell Eric about this. Or...maybe I should stick to cheap costume jewelry. Oy. Wednesday, October 08, 2008Armpit AngstI am really going to lay myself bare here. Almost literally. My armpits are itchy. Not just your average, after-the-shave, I'm-feeling-a-little-sweaty itch. I'm talking an all-out, wall-climbing, digging-the-flesh-from-my-frame-with-angry-fingertips itching. I was awake three times during the night scratching my armpits like a heretofore-undiscovered rabid mammal. It all began when my body decided it didn't like the all-natural deodorant I'd been using. Notice I said "all natural." This is actually the third all-natural deodorant that has made my armpits unhappy. It flies against an earth mama's reason, but there you have it. Being unwilling to stink, I put off going deodorant-free for longer than I should have. When I finally got to the point where the itching seemed far more undesirable than the potential for midday body odor, I tossed pride out the window and stopped using the deodorant. I figured it would take three or four days for the itching to clear up. That was three weeks ago. The good news is that I don't stink. (No, really. I've checked.) But the itching (from a barely-visible rash, I might add) has been increasing exponentially. And last night's agony compelled me to do a little research this morning. Time for some self-diagnosis, you know. Eric, of course, wants me to fly to the nearest dermatologist. My response? Not in this lifetime. Can you just see it? "Hi, my armpits itch. Can you help me out?" And I'd end up with some nasty prescription cream with an accordion-folded, eighteen-inch-long warning label attached to it, and I wouldn't use it. So. I'm not showing my armpits to anyone. Happily, I'm fairly certain I'm on the trail of a right diagnosis. There's a high likelihood that I'm suffering from a yeast infection. Good ol' candida, camping out in my armpits. The first bit of advice I read sounded good to me -- raw, unfiltered apple cider. I already know that the stuff is marvelous. We should all have a little bit every day. Why not share the love with my armpits? I dashed a chug into a bowl and added some filtered water. Then, as my delighted children ate their lunch, I bathed my armpits with the diluted vinegar. Boy, do I smell good. I can hardly wait until Eric comes home tonight. What more could he want than a wife redolent of raw vinegar? Gives a whole new meaning to "hippie." I'm beyond caring what I smell like, though. I don't think I can live through another night of itching. I was mildly surprised this morning to discover that the bedsheets weren't spattered with fresh blood. I might not be so lucky a second time. So I've got a "plan B" to go after, should the vinegar not suffice. I've read -- and I'm willing to believe -- that Lotrimin works on armpit yeast infections. That's right. Jock itch under my arms. The next time Eric comes home from work, I will smell like a testicle. It could be that I'm just getting old. I've heard that itching is one of the strange side effects of menopause. And that old people tend to itch more. I don't know. I'd like to think it's a yeast infection and leave it at that. So wish me luck with the vinegar. And if you don't want to tell anyone that you know me, I completely understand. Labels: holistic health, life, stinky stuff Thursday, October 02, 2008Something's FishyI opened the dryer to pull out the freshly dried dark load that needed folding. An unmistakable stench greeted my nostrils -- and it was not the smell of nice, clean laundry. It smelled like rotten fish. Now, had this been a load of Jonathan's clothing, I wouldn't have blinked. Among his many other talents and interests, he's an avid fisherman. It's easy to imagine his clothing smelling -- fishlike. But, no. This was a load of Eric's and my clothing. And it reeked. Of course, I'm often accused of having overly sensitive olfactory organs. So I grabbed Jonathan as he came down the third floor steps and held out a pair of his dad's underwear. "Hey, Jonnie. Will you tell me what this smells like?" He took a cautious sniff. "Bait." Right. So it wasn't just me. Our entire load of laundry smelled like dead fish. What to do? I wasn't about to re-wash the entire load. So I did a sniff-test. Certain articles smelled very strongly like fish while others were barely noticeable. I pulled out the worst offenders and put them on a "to be re-washed" pile. And the rest I simply folded and integrated with the rest of our clothing. Okay, I'll be honest. I didn't feel like rewashing all that underwear. So some of the really fishy pairs got mixed in with Eric's other, non-fishy pairs. I hoped he wouldn't notice. And he didn't. Notice, that is. Until the following week, when I mentioned it to him. "You know," he said, "I thought something smelled funny but I couldn't put my finger on it. Yeah, it was a fish smell!" One wonders how the man could wear fish-scented underwear all week and not think a little harder about it. So I washed that week's dark load, including the fishy scivvies. The fish smell wouldn't budge. I actually threw away a pair of my jean shorts because they smelled so bad. Eric might not balk at wearing eau de bluegill, but I wasn't going to go there. What I really wanted to know was where the smell came from in the first place. You know? And then it dawned on me. The smelliest thing in the whole lot was the pair of shorts -- my shorts. And I have a nasty little habit that may well have led to this laundry mishap. I sometimes stick my fish oil capsules in my pocket instead of swallowing them right away. Yep. Can you just picture it? A little fish oil capsule inside Jilly's pocket goes through the cold wash cycle without a hitch. Then it hits the hot dryer. It melts, integrating its loveliness into Jill's shorts and all the surrounding pairs of Eric's underwear. The result? Fishy clothing. Eric was more than happy with my explanation, since it was clearly my fault and not his (and yes, I did try more than once to pin it on him). Of course, after our discussions about the Mysterious Fish Odor, he decided he could no longer wear his fishy undies. Mind you, he wore them for an entire week before I mentioned anything. So I'm fairly certain this has more to do with Psychosomatic Smell Disorder than it does my laundry mistakes. What has me baffled, though, is why he hasn't thrown them away. I mean...they stink. They really, really stink. Not that I spend a lot of time smelling his underwear. Trust me, you don't have to get too close to smell them. I'm still taking my fish oil every day. The fish burps are nothing compared to the stench in Eric's underwear bin. There was more fish stink in my future, too. I started to notice my kitchen hand towels sporting a mild fishy odor (I know it well). It was puzzling, since these towels were not in the original Exploding Fish Oil Capsule load. Then I caught him. Eric had just swigged his cod liver oil and was wiping off the lip of the bottle in my clean hand towel. "Ack!!! It's you! You've made my hand towels smell like fish!" He said I could buy new hand towels. And I suppose that means I should let him buy new underwear. Life was easier before fish oil. Labels: life, stinky stuff |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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